ONLY YOU KNOW WE'RE HEADED-A Reprise
Written June 1, 2008

We've got to find a way...to show that we can invoke change.

Change is difficult for many. Could it be the fear that Obama might actually bring a peace America has never known?

I found it very interesting how after the DNC ruling on Florida and Michigan...no...during the motion/petition deliberation, the ‘breaking news’ of Barack Obama's departure from the Trinity United Church was plastered all over. Perfectly timed.

By the way, does anyone know the reason why Michigan and Florida violated DNC rules and held their primaries on January 15th, as opposed to the Jan. 29th date in accordance to DNC guidelines? Could it be that nobody took the Obama campaign seriously? I found it amusing to watch the sudden desperate pleas to be seated. While empathizing with the voters of those states, a rule is a rule is a rule. Then again, we all know what the Governor of Florida thinks about election rules and regulations.

Hillary Clinton's plans to appeal the DNC's ruling (The final disposition would be rendered on or around the time of the Democratic Convention in August) is another distraction. I only hope objective voters see beyond the smoke and mirrors.

Look, I'm inclined to cut through all the politics and just say what this all comes down to:
Is a country that is controlled by white people willing to embrace a Chief Executive that has bronze skin? Is America ready to follow the lead of a person of color? My clear vision tells me this is the culmination of the Civil Rights Movement, and many are afraid to face a possible reality of it.

Sadly, that reality has many of our own afraid to embrace the notion passionately. Fearful of a tremendous letdown come November, the cynical ‘let's just wait and see’ approach that has paralyzed progress has us holding our breath. In some ways it's akin to the ‘I can do bad all by myself’ mentality with regards to black relationships of the heart. A jaded community is so scared of that disappointing feeling that comes with getting hurt that we stand in place and claim a false happiness.

The rhetoric makes me want to holler, and throw up my hands.

Steeling myself with grace, dignity and an unwavering determination against those who think an African-American man and wife in the White House is an egregious act, (BLACK MAN AND WIFE IN THE WHITE HOUSE... BLACK MAN. WHITE HOUSE. Phew, don't mind my zone. Care to join me there?) I'll have strength for my future president, if the attacks get worse. A simple smile and ‘Heaven, Bless You’ is a wonderful shield against cultural subjectivity and racial ignorance.

Surprisingly, I'm also thinking baseball right about now. Recalling the journey of Henry Aaron, and the many hateful and despicable letters he received in pursuit of Babe Ruth's cherished home run record, I marvel in the fact that he never expressed an ounce of hatred to such negative inundation. Like Hammerin' Hank, we can't let anger get the best of us, and let our logic get beyond control.

Showing that there's no room in this land for the traditional ways of hate and rage by way of political gamesmanship, we've been given a glorious opportunity to rock the world's foundation by hollering YES WE CAN.

I Think He Can...

You?

ONLY YOU KNOW WHERE WE'RE HEADED...

ONLY YOU KNOW WHERE WE'RE HEADED
Written May 30, 2008

Pictures like this make me want to holler... And throw up my hands.

Only you know where we're headed, Heavenly Father.

All that is asked of us is that we give each other Love, but with chickens roasted in racism still coming home to roost, it makes it hard to forgive. Can you remove the frustrated fury getting the best of me?

Reasoning getting beyond control, please relieve the shame I feel from this building madness. Instead of using love, peace and happiness, anger has taken occupancy, living rent free in rooms of mental energy.

Is it my love for people that has my mind weeble-wobbling, or in the alternative, is it the ignorance and stupidity of racist imperfection that has me going in circles?

This is not the way my head is supposed to be.

Before we see the light of change, will the poisonous winds blowing negativity east and west take it all away? Is all of the Obama hope a set-up for a devastating disappointment? Gas prices going sky-high, a country kids fighting in another world and dying for oil? (isn't that supposed to bring prices down? Or do I smell another Bush snow job? Someone, please help me out.). Propaganda-preaching politicians polluting the population with other reasons why? They never did give us the real reason for so many wooden coffins returning home.

Bad breaks aplenty and setbacks in our progression all around. A jacked-up health plan has us all in limbo. You can't get sick, and you better keep a job. Oops can’t find one. Fucked up economy producing layoffs.

Trigger-happy officers here to protect and serve firing fifty bullets at an unarmed man on the precipice of saying I DO makes you wonder if the urgent grooves of our late prophet Marvin Gaye were a portent of things to come. All you really asked of us, is that we give each other love. It seems we're failing at that.

Only you, Heavenly Father, know where it's all headed.

Being punished with life's brutal harshness, my soul has been flying the friendly skies of my thoughts with my feet planted squarely in the reality of troubling times. So many people in pursuit of green, destroying the lives of others with subjective thoughts of slander, sex and drugs through literature, cinema and television. It sells, a crippled society boldly declares.

What? You mean that the exploits of a spoiled brat named Paris Hilton mean more to our minds than the bus-driver struggling to keep his kids in school? And what about the homeless? Are we so brainwashed on entertainment and escape that we ignore the bottom line? Where's the substance that saves children from early depression and ill-equipped babies from bringing more lives into the world they know damn well they can't take care of? Where's the thought-provoking depth that fills libraries, enlivens dormant spirits with hope, and enhances the intellect of a community? Has it all been sacrificed for fame and survival; compromised for the cash chase? Do tell-all journals and shoot-em-up books preaching self-hatred to the naïve mean more to our collective thought process than actually reading something that might help us grow? Does money really rule everything surrounding my soul?

I guess slaves are still being made of men.

Who really cares about the despair that has prevented all of us from doing what's right? Who's willing to try to selflessly switch sorrow to smiles, with all their might? Do we still hope for better, brighter, blue skies? Or is the saying true about a hero being nothing more than a sandwich?

Lord knows, I've been trying to make sense of it all. But only you know where we're headed.

WHY DO BLACK WRITERS STIGMATIZE OURSELVES WITH LABELS?

WHY DO BLACK WRITERS STIGMATIZE THEMSELVES WITH LABELS? By William Fredrick Cooper
(Written May 6, 2008)

(I hope I'm not nitpicking here, and if this offends anybody, then knowing the ultra-sensitive climate of the world known as African-American Literature, I truly mean no harm.)

I happened to come across a writer whose blog label indicated that the person was lesser known, and it got me to thinking:

Why do we, in the African-American Writing Community, subject ourselves to titles? Why do we adhere to a pecking order by way of politics? Why do some writers, when around others, see the progress of others and say things in conversation like ‘Well, I'm not succeeding like you’, or comments of this nature? Why are there status designations in our community, and is it fair?

I mean, Is there a difference in 1) a person writing for the love of it; 2) a person writing for book sales, prestige and productivity, and 3) a person period? What makes us label people? Politics? Insecurities?

Someone help me out.

From this vantage point, a writer is a writer, period. While it's wonderful nice to see the progress of others, and of the literary community as a whole, I know quite a few of us would be writing even if there was an absence of the trappings that accompany the trade.
You want to know why?

It's because we love it. We're enamored with blending words in an intellectual mixer and concocting a post, a passage, or an eighty to one-hundred thousand word effort. We love sharing opinions, and in some instances, drama, in the reading groups or on blog sites like MY SPACE and BLACK PLANET.

While paying respect to those that are prolific, what does that have to do with the person themselves? Are they giving back to the literary village and helping others with their love for the craft? Should it matter if I share thoughts with a Best-selling author? What about the community: are we encouraging education through literacy, as opposed to drugs, teenage pregnancy, violence and strife? Status, labels and politics are not in the trenches, for these are things you would do without the applause.

And this is not to offend any best-selling authors, because there's nothing wrong with making money doing something you love to do. But why the egos, the preferential politics and condescending dispositions? What's up with all the status labels? Why are some people, in our literary community, treated better than others?

A QUESTION TO PONDER: What if it were all stripped away. Would we all be writing?

I would, for I am a writer not defined by status. Transforming meditation to stories, I write because I love the nuances, and am a student constantly learning to put words together, humbly hoping they sound good. The magical melody that comes from the movement of metaphors and powerful, poignant, poetic phrases please me. Whether emotional or erotic, there's something about the English language that I yearn to master, and I don't need a definition for the love I feel when I read something spectacular, or compose something from my soul.

When alone with a computer, there are no politics or pecking order, or egos telling me that I'm better than anyone. I simply write, and need no labels to categorize my love for the special feeling running through even as my thoughts appear on this screen. It's a genuine, pure feeling that I wish all of us could experience.

Given the ego movement and politics of our community and the labels being passed around, I often wonder if many feel the same way.

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT....

Something to Think About … By William Fredrick Cooper

Written April 29, 2008

Did you know that Barbara Reynolds, a Clinton endorser, had something to do with Reverend Jeremiah Wright's appearance at the National Press Club in Washington on Monday?

DAMN, if that isn't a set-up, then I don't know what is.

While not mad at the Reverend for his stance against Obama, I wonder if he fully realizes the trap he walked into, and how his actions, if they continue, might set us back about twenty to twenty-five years. They pit us against each other, and because some of us want glory at any cost, we take the bait. While accurate with some of his commentary, like a bad slant pattern leaving a wide receiver exposed at the mercy of a hard-charging middle linebacker ready to lay him out, his timing was off. He should have stopped after his brilliant Moyer Interview Friday Night and excellent, thought-provoking DIFFERENT, BUT NOT DEFICIENT speech in Detroit Sunday Night. But he stayed too long on the stage. He should have discussed this 1) with Barack Obama in private or 2) after November.

Definitely, a bad move.

I've been hearing on the radio that Barack Obama may be the first legitimate shot a person of color (Or, in the Hillary alternative, the first non-white male) may have at the oval office. I have a funny feeling he may be the last for some time if we don't stick together and ignore the divisive distractions that the old political guard continues to throw into our faces. That guard has been fitted with conditioned blinders that scream "See, this is what we they do when given the opportunity to shine. They battle each other like crabs..."

I really don't think I need to finish this.

I keep thinking of how we sold each other into slavery, infiltrated unions of black progression, much to our detriment, and how we as people have fell for the ‘banana in the tailpipe’ gag time and time again for some ‘greater good’ we never receive for our dubious actions. I keep shaking my head as the tears flow because even in our everyday lives, some of us just don't get it.

It can break a man's spirit.

That is why we must all be tough, for Obama's sake. Change is very difficult for us all. It makes us all feel uneasy to leave a comfort center, go against every form of resistance imaginable, counter the ignorance of others with love, as much as they challenge it, and triumph in the end. We all have personal experiences of such, but they all pale in comparison to what this man is about to go through.

That's what this change is all about. He wants it for a country in dire need of such. What we should be asking ourselves is, HOW BAD DO WE WANT IT?

THE WRIGHT CHOICE?

THE WRIGHT CHOICE?

by William Fredrick Cooper
Written April 28th, 2008

CHANGE and PEACE. Two words that strike fear in the hearts of the complacent, as well as the controversial figures accustomed to the old way of politics. You know the type: ones that adapted the ‘Richard Nixon Campaigning Philosophy’: DESTROY THE OPPOSITION AND THEIR POLITICAL CAREERS WITH DAMAGING COMMENTS and LINKAGE TO "ALLEGED" UNSAVORIES. While successful at times, this form of chicanery came home to roost back in the ugly form of Watergate, where he was granted no way out for his acts of deception. The lessons should have been learned then about the right way of doing things.

Thirty Five years later... It hasn’t.

We all know there has never been a political candidate publicly scrutinized the way Barack Obama continues to be. Never has a Democratic hopeful been so blatantly attacked, and yet still he stands tall. Through all the subjective, slanted comments about ‘running out the political clock’, all the bullying tactics by fellow presidential candidates (Have you ever known there to be so many debates BEFORE a democratic nomination? NOPE.), all the rhetoric about him being a ‘smooth-talking, Community leader’, et al.

And now, for our viewing pleasure, this 'Jeremiah Wright' thing.

Ah yes, the WRIGHT thing. Already I hear the 'Guilt by Association' cries from News Correspondents and the so-called political analysts, many of whom:

1) Have never run for a political office -THERE'S A BIG DIFFERENCE BETWEEN STUDYING BOOKS AND COURSES REGARDING POLITICS AND ACTUALLY BEING IN THE FIRE, and, in the alternative;

2) are mired in the old way of doing things and fearful of change.

It's amusing to watch CNN and listen to Lou Dobbs, Anderson Cooper and all these so-called experts. Comments and opinions that, to the naked, naive eye, appear objective, are thinly veiled in sarcasm, condescension and subjectivity. It's almost that they're... check this: they’re fearful of what was once deemed improbable.

So what happens when the polls, numbers and delegates speak truth and a dead heat in another Midwestern state thought to be a given occurs? Wheel out an Obama ‘Achilles' Heel’, Pastor Jeremiah Wright, on cue. The old way, desperate in a way never imagined, called upon desperate measures. When in doubt, use whatever you can to destroy the opposition.

There goes Indiana, I thought silently as I turned on the charade. But upon listening to Pastor Wright words carefully at the NAACP function in Detroit last night, I couldn't help but take his words as him being a prophet. Obama's run at the oval office, is proof positive that DIFFERENT IS NOT DEFICIENT. Smiling as I received the message as it was delivered, his words may have been preparing media and state through church that for the first time in WHO KNOWS WHEN IN AMERICA for change.

For the first time in recent memory, we may actually have a person that can bring peace to the world.

Granted, this isn't a sure thing. Maintaining wars makes the government money. And the gas prices are going through the roof, not to mention inflation and the unemployment rate. But you can't rule out change. Maybe, just maybe there's a spiritual connection to all of this. Different won't mean deficient, but it will restore order from the mess Bush made. That's what the old way of doing of things in truly afraid of.

Jeremiah Wright was right on time yesterday. It's up to us to get the message in its clarity and continue to stand behind our future president, Barack Obama.

STILL A THRILLER, 25 Years Later… By William Fredrick Cooper :
Written February 12, 2008

Yeah, yeah, I know... In 2008 he's eccentric, troubled and tortured. They say he's squandered millions, and through the skin-morphing and accusations of pedophilia, it seems he has all kinds of emotional issues. But see, what I've learned over the years about people is this: NONE OF US ARE PERFECT, AND IF GOD PASSED JUDGMENT ON US ALL, WE ALL BE DEAD. When this is mastered, it helps me look at the good in us all.

In Michael Jackson's instance, I discard the negative opinions, and simply view the Virgo genius in him. Yes, I purchased my 25th Anniversary album today, and felt the same way I did years ago, when a sophomore in High School. Possessing something for Baby Boomers (The Girl Is Mine), the mamba rhythm, electro-funk lovers (Wanna Be Starting Somethin') the R&B lovers (Baby Be Mine) and casual listeners (Human Nature, P.Y.T.), producer Quincy Jones and arrangers Jerry Hey and Rod Temperton crafted brilliance. And those weren't even the major joints on the album.

Think about Usher, Justin Timberlake and Chris Brown for a second. Also stop and think about Kanye West and P. Diddy. Then be real honest with yourself. Okay, if you need a refresher’s course, thank goodness for You Tube. It's not even close. The disparity between manufactured media made hype (Which defines talent these days in all walks of life. Okay, I'm a little too truthful: maybe Usher comes a little close, and Kanye does have some cultural impact...SOME.) and entertainers with natural gifts are laughable, as are the comparisons. Their videos are being shown on MTV at an alarming rate. Think about why for a second, and it validates my claims. Michael Jackson was, and continues to be both Alpha and Omega of today’s pop culture. Anyone care to disagree?

The stars aligned between April and November of 1982, and illuminated Westlake Recording Studios, in Los Angeles. Produced by Quincy Jones, it was the perfect blend of pop, funk, rock and R&B. Thirty-seven weeks at Number One in the U.S. Number one in the UK, South Africa, Holland, Japan, Austrailia... Seven Top Ten Singles. Two Number One tracks. Innovative music videos and a Motown 25 performance as a cherry on a sundae.

Simply put, Michael smoked THRILLER. Smoked it. Begging lovely in the lustful 'Lady In My Life', he many brothers saying ‘Don't You Go Nowhere .. Ooh girl, Lemme Keep you warm’. Hell, horror movie star Vincent Price Rapped on 'Thriller'. Beat It made even the most hardcore R&B lovers dig Eddie Van Halen and his blistering guitar solo.

‘Billie Jean’ was recorded in one take. All you need to hear is that insistent drumbeat provided by Leon 'Ndugu' Chancler, Louis Johnson's bass line, Jerry Hey's string arrangement and the trademark hiccups, yelps and voice and instantly your vision returns to Motown 25 and his mechanical walk, spins, and Jeffrey Daniels taught moonwalk...Did I say he did a triple spin and froze on his toes? It was the perfect masterpiece on a flawless album, and simply set the bar so high even he couldn't reach it, try as he might.

So much has changed since 1983, but classics remain timeless in their beauty. Astaire dancing with Ginger Rogers, Michael Jordan artistically going up for two, or reading a book by James Baldwin or wonderful work of Richard Wright. In Pop culture, there was something timeless in 1983. Let's take time out to appreciate it.

Thanks, Michael.

STATE OF THE WORLD: A Jam With a Message… By William Fredrick Cooper
(Written January 9th, 2008)

Drugs and crime spreadin’ on the streets
People can’t find enough to eat
Now our kids can’t go out and play
That’s the state of the world today
-Lyrics of State Of The World



Music Aficionados,
I'm sure you might agree with me when I say that every now and then, there comes a song that grips you're body every time you hear it, causing chills up and down the spine, the hips , if very loose like mines, to sway, the feet to move and the an innate, instinctive head bob. Instead of listening to the jam, you feel it to your soul. The song STATE OF THE WORLD, by Janet Jackson does that to me. The second song of the RHYTHM NATION 1814 CD, the Marvin Gaye-like social messages about homelessness, prostitution and illiteracy grabbed me way back in 1989 when I heard the LP Version. Then in early 1991, when at The Palladium, a club in Midtown Manhattan, I heard the United Nations Dub, followed by the United Nations Remix, and lost my mind.

Feeling those tribal cat-and-call ad-libs as well as those African chants fused with a modern day bass groove, that night, I closed my eyes and launched into a dance solo some of my friends later described as ‘simply amazing.’ Feeling the spirit of the song then (as I do now even as I type), it was like a holy ghost moment at Church for me that night as the jam spoke to me.

I just knew I had to buy this cut, and it took me years to find this remix. Though commercially released all over the world as the 8th single from the Rhythm Nation LP (It went number one in South Africa - a no brainer in hindsight), it was restricted to radio and club play here in the U.S., in large part because of Janet leaving A&M for Virgin Records.

Finally locating this back in 2002, I wore out the CD it was on, and had to wait another five years before obtaining it again, only to lose it once more. Joining Janet's media site, last night I found a link to the song, and needless to say, as I type this and listening to the description of today's times via sinister bass and treble grooves, I can't help but tap my feet to the time while nodding my head to the message the song offers. Listen to this track, and tell me if it rings true.

This remix, by far, is the best one Janet has ever done. Take a listen on You Tube and tell me if you agree... (See link below)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c0PSc0oxvZA&feature=related

MISSING PHYLLIS HYMAN... By William Fredrick Cooper

MISSING PHYLLIS HYMAN by William Fredrick Cooper (Inspired by Jason A. Michael - Essence Bestselling Author of STRENGTH OF A WOMAN: The Phyllis Hyman Story... Please Support My Brother...)

Written December 21, 2007

I'm In A Sentimental Mood today. I sure hope you appreciate it, my dear. Phyllis Hyman, your beauty is missed today. Not to mention that powerful instrument from God. A couple of nights ago, I watched a rebroadcast of a BET Awards Show, and saw would-be's, wanna-be's and manufactured superstars grace the stage. I couldn't help but wonder, old friend, how you would have been received had you not decided to write your own ticket home.

You were a goddess, my fallen queen, an extraordinary songstress who sang with an unmatched emotional intensity. Tall, striking and sensual, your silky voice was a symphony of one, the instruments of emotions never fully appreciated by us; that is, until after the fact. Power, sexuality, grace, class is what rang true to my ears, not to mention a dark, deep, melancholy tone that comes from a voice searching for a happiness that only God can provide. Not only coming from your voice, your beautifully wide eyes were windows to your soul, telling us, no, imploring and pleading with us to love you. You could have found it with many of us, had you let us in.

Majestically moving and mesmerizing, you had a powerful presence, not to mention a sensational, sensuous sound in song that comes along once in a lifetime. When you left us, baby, some of us felt cheated. Left holding a bag, whatever happened to real singers a baker's dozen years later? Some are cute, but their real vocals are where? Hidden in breathy, throat-singing (diaphragm, please.) multi-tracked vocals and gospel screams, some real, others as fake as three dollar bill trying to dance a jig across a merchant's counter.

Yeah, I'm like WHAT THE... as well, boo.

The deterioration of spirit and self-esteem can break us; Lord knows I knew the battle first hand, Phyllis. You helped me through many a night, as I identified with your need for love and appreciation through song. Hearing you pleas for help and acceptance during the final gut-wrenching minutes of Living In Confusion, I knew what it was like 'always goin' through changes.' Connected to your vocal improvisations, you comforted me through many troubled, tear-filled nights as I put pen to paper the very first time in my life. Relating to your battles with inner torment, perhaps you chose me to emerge victorious for us both with regards to conquering demons. After all, we became one for a respite, for you helped me write SIX DAYS IN JANUARY my first novel. And for that, I'm eternally grateful, old friend.Still missing you intensely, years later.

I remember the day I found out you just couldn't take it anymore. June 30th, 1995. I was in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, visiting an ex-girlfriend, and upon hearing the tragic bulletin, I thought it was a cruel joke. The return bus ride proved otherwise. Radio stations throughout the East Coast played your music as if they too were mired in confusion. The shock of your passing did that too us all.

Old Friend, thirteen years later, we still feel unlucky, for you are missed dearly. I can't stand this Living All Alone, without that incredible gift from God. Delicious looking, deep-voiced and a glorious statue of beauty for sore eyes, I Didn't Want To Lose You when you left us, as we were Caught Under A Spell, saying Betcha By Golly Wow. You Knew How To Love Us all with that tremendously talented tone of yours, yet we hoped that you would heed the words of your posthumous track and victoriously announce to us all I Refuse To Be Lonely.

Somewhere In Our Lifetime, we will remember you, Sophisticated Lady, not for your struggles through song, but in the alternative, your incredible talent. I just wish you were still here.

Missing You Always,

William

(TO JASON: TV ONE can take your ideas from you, but they can't take your heart, and soul. Within your wonderful deed, Phyllis Hyman still lives within us all. Thank you so much for taking time out to write a book that should have been done long ago. Hugs and Handpounds not only from us on earth, but those in heaven as well. God Bless, my brother.)

TAKE ME AS I AM - Inspired by Mary J. Blige's 'Take Me As I Am' - by William Fredrick Cooper
(Written December 1, 2007)

Take Me As I Am, flawed in human body, yet good in heart. I'll make my mistakes and be talked about constantly, but at days end I'll still stand tall. Accepting my past and the errors thereof, through God's will He has not let me fall, for only He judges my imperfections with love.

Live your lives with no regrets, and enjoy the journey of peaks and valleys, triumphs and turmoil mired in a measured mixture of joy and pain. It's done this way so that we cherish the little things everyday offers us. Being lost and sometimes found, Can you take all of me, as I am? Emotions govern my heart, leading to checkered decisions. Life has taught me that, in the best and worst of times. But I wouldn't change a thing, for it's who I am. Sing, Mary Sing: I CAN ONLY BE ME.

If the skies were sunny all the time, the beauty of life would be missed, for it's in the struggles where our inner spirit is constructed. Human Will. Determination. Faith. Integrity. Remorse. Forgiveness. And most importantly, LOVE. While others may lose faith in you, the Lord always finds his wayward sheep and steers them back on course in spite of the criticisms of others. Rebuilding a paradise lost within, life becomes better with a paradise regained, as the lessons from mistakes imperfect humans judge you for are forgiven in His eyes. you are taught peace during times of tribulation, and acceptance of others, for they are as flawed as you are.

Put your life in everything you do, so that people can feel you. Becoming older and wiser from the year before, mistakes will still be made, but they won't be the same ones from yesteryear. Forgive yourself, even if others don't forgive you. Accept what you can't change due to mistake, and alter what you can in the eyes of God. Unlike Humans, He takes all of us while human judgment wants nothing at all.

Haters aside, find that solid ground that brings peace. If others question your morals and methods to your madness, don't let the fact that an exodus might be chosen; leave their center with a smile and only wish great things. After all, you still have a life to lead, one filled with the anticipation of new beginnings while fulfilling the life He has in store for us. After all, each second of the day is only lived once, so errors are immediately in the past once a new second arrives. Don't press the rewind button on things from the past and relive the pain, for it will be repeated. Make that a motto for every new year and embrace those that embrace you. Positive energy feeds off of more positive energy, this in spite of everyday imperfections in us all.

Move into the new year with a clean slate for all, and you will find that your slate too, is cleaned. Learn to love yourself and others unconditionally, and you will find that the negative energy attempting to burrow into your life with be covered with Love. For those, and other will possess the energy in you. That is, if you accept people for who they really are.

Take Me As I Am, flawed in human body, yet good in heart. I'll make my mistakes and be talked about constantly, but in the end I'll still stand tall. Accepting my past and the errors thereof, through God's will He has not let me fall, for only He judges my imperfections with love.

Happy holidays...

IS IT MY NOW? (A Hope Unfilled)

IS IT MY NOW? - Inspired by Jordin Sparks 'THIS IS MY NOW' by William Fredrick Cooper

(Written: September 26, 2007)

The Dream starts in your father's living room

Writing longhand in 1996

Borrowing lap-tops with no computer skills

Daring to learn WordPerfect tricks

Your family thinks you're crazy

No support coming from there

So you realize you're alone from conception

Dreaming while no one else cares

You somehow find a writing groove

With Phyllis Hyman soothing your pain

An office floor becomes your bed away from home

Through many months of rain.

Tears fall as you complete the initial draft

Back in the dawn of 1998

Six Days In January sounds better than Two Sides

Emotional closure while finishing a book is great.

You spend two years of shopping

for seventy rejections in all

Write Like Dickey or Tyree, agents said

Black Men don't have feelings at all

Destiny screams do it yourself

Sixteen hour work days to get it done

Print-on-Demand is a viable option

The first version is published in 2001

College Park Morning that April

While telling my story from the heart

Zane entered my life with an offer

Out of distrust, I rejected it from the start.

I came this far by myself, I said

I think I can do this alone

Pride comes before a fall, God said

You better take this freaking bone

Pause for the cause... We all make those mistakes, but the beauty in life in that when things are destined to happen, they have a way of coming back around. Back to the flow, ya know?

Summer days and nights with Drum and Spear

We pushed my writing dream

Establishing an audience of writing peers

Who saw talent I refused to see

Timm McCann and Tracy Thompson

Sang my praises through the night

A beautiful Flower named Nancy

Had me Water A Garden at Twilight

So around came Zane for a second time

Asking if I had a story to tell

Legal Days And Lonely Nights For Sistergirls. com

My own computer finally arrived as well.

In 2004' she re-released

the beginning of my dream

A Black Expressions feature the first time out

My vision was finally gathering steam

That summer and for two years thereafter

Literary goals were packed away

Losing my job. almost, then actually an apartment

Hold On, Will, your boat will definitely sway

Within those ashes lay a miracle

Forged from destiny was a story of love

Up came There's Always A Reason

A novel that was a gift from above

Taking another step of faith

Again I began to write

Praying my tale would help a community

The completion would not be without a fight

Running through emotions once more

Many deadlines come and go

See Zane on the street, she demands my book

Do I have a dream no mo'?

Two weeks later a novel was produced

And I prayed that it was worth the wait

I find out through my publisher and peers

Man, this story's great

The early reviews were tremendous

Adding to my worries and fears

Have my writing skills improved

After all, It's been so many years

The readers, always wanting change

Would they appreciate something from my soul

legion of new fans adored the book

readers both young and old.

Fighting through online jealousies and vicious abuse

You finally find your stride

With a story that touched so many lives

One that sends you on a ride

In your heart you are humbly thankful

For each journey has its rewards

On September 26th, 2007

I may actually win my first literary award.

Even if I'm not that lucky

In my heart I've already won

Because its my journey, not the end result

That might inspire or help someone.

So for anyone out aspiring authors out there

Who might be discouraged by their fate

Hold tightly to your dreams and never give up

For a great destiny never comes too late.

If September 26th, 2007 is my now, Father, let me accept my gift not only for myself, but for everyone I know that has a dream. And if it's not my time, please let the recipient of the Breakout Author Of The Year award be humble enough to acknowledge you, Lord, as the bringer of all good things. So many of us in this industry think selfish thoughts and forget where our blessings originate, but know that in my heart I know it's You that has guided me through storms, forgiven me for my mistakes, and it's You who created my dreams. You have given me a way when no one else believed in me but me, and it's because of your will I've made it this far. And I know that my accomplishments are your victory, for your greatest gift is love.

And I thank you so much, Father, for everything.

William Fredrick Cooper

(FOOTNOTE: While I came up short that night, someone in the industry paid me a great compliment by saying they saw 'James Baldwin" in my writing. The best in life comes without the applause sometimes.)

IF I SHOULD DIE TONIGHT (A ODE TO AA LITERATURE)

IF I SHOULD DIE TONIGHT (An Ode To Writing) By William Fredrick Cooper
Author of 'THERE'S ALWAYS A REASON'
Written August 25, 2007

You hear all the rumors
Now you're writing with fear
Major contracts are not being renewed
Is the end of my dream drawing near?

Tremendous sacrifices made with tons of faith
Were they fallacies, or just a mirage?
Don't bring no flowers to a career's funeral, publisher's say
The women don't need a corsage

The substance in our craft slowly fades away
While the business screams all is fair
Publishers wants fast reads as mainstream
Thinking scribes are left in despair

Sales, sales, sales must be up,
Or so the companies say,
But do they really take time out
To help a generation gone astray?

Literary eyes are there to deceive
Black truths are left in a shadow
What happened to works standing the test of time
Will our sisters and brothers still grow?

Works called entertainment are unfeeling
Are they made for public distraction?
From Unity, Peace, Hope and Black Love
Negativity mentalities fueling a popular reaction

Sex and Street Lit will continue to sell
As tears from serious genres form a stream
Where did inspiration and empowerment go?
Lost in pursuit of that green cream

Do I conform and dance to my own beat
Knowing my end may be near
Or do I face it with bravery, dignity and valor
Knowing that my voice might die without fear

Do I continue to write thought-provoking prose
Never receiving my due
Or do I go along to get along and compose mindless escapism tomes
To satisfy a popular, politically correct point of view?

If I should die tonight,
Have I done it all?
To uplift and encourage a slavery torn race
Have I answered my Father's call?

Close to your dreams
Yet the same distance from your death
Don't sell out, my mind pleads
Write from the soul till your dying breath

Weave from the craft positive stories
Messages a community can use that are so dear
Do so bravely facing the bullet
Smiling as the end draws near

The beating of my heart will not stop
Even as I die tonight
Tears of sorrow drowned by a simple smile
Knowing I put up a courageous fight

The messages through Black words will remain
But are they anointed passages from above?
Will they glorify self-hated, the enemy of our race
Or will they be positive, and filled with love?

You decide.

I Know I am A Writer by William Fredrick Cooper

(Written July of 2007)

I want to be a writer

Whose flow is like Eric Pete's

With imagery akin to Channer or James Baldwin

And we all know that's no simple feat

I want to be a writer

One that touches your heart

Through Eros, thinking prose or poignant tale

A reader's soul is a wonderful place to start.

I want to be a writer

One creating a legacy

Like Dumas, Wheatley, Wright or Donna Hill,

Added to a pinch of Eric Jerome Dickey

I want to be a writer

Whose pride is in his diversity

A message-deliverer like Michael E. Dyson or Ralph Wiley

Or weaving a story to every ethnicity

I want to be a writer

Cognizant of the importance of literacy

That understands many ancestors have died

So we can cultivate our artistry

I want to be a writer

Always enamored with this craft

Articulate alliteration, strong substance, stable sentence structure

Enhancing your mind like the forefathers of my past

I want to be a writer

One that explores both joy and pain

Touching hearts while striving for greatness

Yet stirring sexual senses, like someone I know named Zane.

I know I am a writer

And with that comes responsibility

Of giving my all at signings and book-club meetings

Because it's helpful to our community

I know I am a writer

One encouraging those going astray

With words screaming progress, not regression

Our future depends on me this way

I know I am a writer

In awe of God's gift to me

I pray to make a strong contribution

To both our village and to history.

And I mean this... man....

OUR GODFATHER GOES HOME (James Brown Tribute)

OUR GODFATHER GOES HOME... (R.I.P James Brown 1933-2006)

Written December 25, 2006

I'm sad this Christmas morning, but the funny thing is I'm jammin!!! Livin' In America while gettin' it on the good foot, the sound of Maceo's Parker’s prominent sax solos ring in my ears , and it's groove has me moving in my seat. Droppin' to my knees, the crowd in my mind sings PLEASE DON'T GO as someone puts a coat over me, helps me up to my feet and, attempts to aid me off the stage. But I won't go... Not time yet. My Godfather of Soul, James Brown, wants me to write this!!!

Have you ever wondered where the feverish showmanship of Michael Jackson, Prince, Bobby Brown & Usher originated? Watch the flashy footwork I'm proud to say at 40 years of age I can do. The shuffle, then split of the prolific rough-voiced Godfather in his prime, and all questions are answered about our legacy. The love he wished he shared with parents he did not know coming across in every song performed, the hard-charging edgy beats and heartfelt, yet sometimes indecipherable lyrics (Remember Eddie Murphy's parody?) touched the core of us all.

All of the music we listen to today has been influenced by the GODFATHER OF SOUL. HIT ME, JAMES, TWO TIMES! From Hip-Hop to Disco to R&B to Deep soul, they all sample the deep funk, blaring guitars and endless horn brass that came from James. You think he stopped with all those grooves sampled religiously by hip-hop artists? Hell, James Brown's music also left its mark on the rhythms of African music, such as afrobeat, jùjú and mbalax, and provided a flawless template for go-go music. Get up off that thing and agree with me: this man was Super Bad. If not, they'll be some static. Won't start none, won't be none.

GODFATHER, if it wasn't so soon after Gerald, I wouldn't be so forlorn. But I want to thank you personally, for you helped me once, back in 1994. Remembering when my Bronx touch-tackle football team lost a semifinal game in the rain and mud to an all-white team on Christmas Eve, it was a sickening feeling akin to a Grinch stealing Christmas. Desperately trying to keep our season alive, I caught three season saving, fourth-down passes to keep drives alive that Saturday morning, but my efforts weren't enough. Enduring taunts and lousy officiating because of our skin color, that unpleasant memory stayed with my Falcon teammates for 365 days, when again, on Christmas Eve, we played the same team with a championship on the line. Guess what song we played as we warmed up? The PAYBACK!!! And yes, we won the return encounter. And at games end, I shouted Da-di-da-da thrice, just as you closed the powerful record, and carried on. SAYING IT LOUD, WE WERE BLACK AND PROUD that day!

You instructed us to carry on, and somehow, someway we will. But the air will be a little murkier without you. You think Maceo could play sax for Barry White's band as you, Gerald, Phyllis and Luther bless us with the concert to end all shows? I sure hope so.

I'll miss you, Godfather.

William.

UNBREAKABLE... (But Will He Learn His Lesson?)

UNBREAKABLE …But Will He Learn His Lesson? (An Ode To Michael Jackson) by William Fredrick Cooper
(Written June 13th, 2005)

You Can't Believe it,
You Can't Conceive it;
And You Can't Touch Me
'Cause I'm Untouchable

And I Know You Hate it,
And you can't take it
You'll never break me
Cause I'm Unbreakable...

-Lyrics from UNBREAKABLE
From Michael Jackson's INVINCIBLE CD - 2001

Now that I can exhale, I will again blast my Michael Jackson selections with a certain peace. Yes, I held my breath as well, for when the charges dropped, I assumed he was a goner. While I realized the ramifications/repercussions if convicted of child molestation and additional counts of lewd misconduct and voiced this in an E-mail about a year ago, I prayed that they wouldn't take him away from me.

You see, as eccentric as we all know he is, the fact that I can separate talent from reality has me still loving this man. My memory drifts back to Zane's cruise, when Felicia Madlock and I did an impromptu rendition of the Jackson Five upon hearing ‘I Want You Back.’

Apparently, I'm not the only one that loves his talent.

I almost took another walk to Time Square to watch another lynching rope break. You remember the last time it occurred, almost ten years ago? White America was about to teach us a lesson like we were still enslaved, for allegedly killing two of their own. Thousands gathered and watched the JumboTron back in 1996 as we learned the fate of one Orenthal James Simpson, much like viewing a lynching back in the day.

Only that day, however, the noose broke. The Glove didn't fit ‘The Juice’ in that moment of time, so now I get to watch, without guilt, #32 in blue in those 1970’s Buffalo Bill highlights behind the Electric Company, juking and dodging defenders while not in a White Bronco being chased by police.

Still feeling the many hugs I shared that day when walking from Times Square to Grand Central, moments like that are spiritual with us. While not racist, I can't help but smirk at the many red faces I saw that day. It's as if all the moments where we were made to feel inferior, all the hoses, the attack dogs and rapes of our women, William Lynch philosophy, I-must-be-twice-as-good-to-get-the-same-job-as-you, using Omarosa and J.L. King as civil dissension breeding pawns... (Have you ever noticed when they need to make the American Public aware of things in life, they use black people? And what's even more idiotic is that we fall prey to the dumbness every time, like Charlie Brown does every time Lucy Van Pelt picks up that damn football.)And all those moments came home to roost in one moment.

Make that three. With the fear and frustration felt after 9/11 and the Michael Jackson verdict, I wonder how white people feel, as Cornel West put it on the day I was baptized at my church three years ago, to be ‘Niggerized’.

Makes you think, huh?

But alas, the polarization failed to cease today. As I listened to some post-verdict frustrations in my office, I truly wondered if they, as well as ‘Massa CNN and its fellow media brothers, actually do get it. Perhaps another towel is in order to wipe more egg of their faces.

I just hope Michael gets it too. In 1993, he took an expensive Strike One to the tune of 20 million dollars lost. This trial and public humiliation and what little decency he had left was Strike Two. The lesson, if failed again, will be worse. This is not to say he is guilty of anything. But he must make changes.

He has three boys. Be a father to them. Wanna help children, dude? Donate money to many of these mentorship programs, for we sure can use it. Have supervised visits at Neverland, if any at all. And get back into that studio and focus on that incredible gift of yours. Next time around, you might not be so lucky.

Please, Mike... learn the lesson, for many of us still love you.

William

IT'S FUNNY (A Gerald Levert Tribute)

It's Funny: (In tribute to Gerald Levert) By William Fredrick Cooper

(Written November 10, 2006)

Gerald, I didn't know it was gonna be one of those days. Lawdy, I didn't know your phone would ring, and an angel would tell you and that ever-smooth gruff voice of yours to come home. Going home to the arms of the Lord above, knowing that your health and spirits are in the good hands of God can make one's day.

Except man, you left so many people here on earth sad, as your unmatched soulful seductiveness through song will be missed. It'll be interesting to hear Luther's gentle meet your power, your raw explosiveness in that duet in heaven. Shit, that's gonna be something.

You were a special kind: Born from good stock, too. Daddy has a voice that sends chill, yours was just as fiery, yet passionate enough to relate to the younger generation. When in love, a righteous man asked his baby, per your request, to HOLD ON TO ME. Many of us, wish we were like you, that special kind. It's funny, dude: You dared many a man to admit their sexual vulnerability by daring them to announce to their ladies U GOT THAT LOVE; that 'damn we don't deserve it sweetness between hot legs ,that call into work type of, slow down, sweetie, I'm about to bust, headboard shattering moistness that takes our orgasms from us; that special kegel-gripping while whispering shit in your ear kind of sensuality reserved for deserving Kings like us, man.

Pop, Pop, Pop goes my mind, for you were here just yesterday, teasing and pleasing us with that sultry sound, through seductively sensational sounding song. Treating us, appeasing the needs of women with titillating, tantalizing, talented to, I respectfully disagree with you and Keith Sweat: you weren't JUST ONE OF THEM THANGS.

Death can be sudden, shocking to the senses when the departed left with unfinished business. But I, for one, rejoice that you left so much legacy behind. However, like many great acts, your untimely passing left us all wanting that encore that will never come. Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye, Luther, then you. What happened to all the loving?

Rest in peace, dawg. Hugs and handpounds in heaven.

Your boy,

Will.

My Arms Are Cold and Empty
(taken from the Novel "There's Always A Reason')
Written May 29, 2006

My arms are cold and empty
My ears will hear no cries
No baby smiles or pleasant coos
For a dream of motherhood dies

My womanliness is a contradiction
A purpose meets a cruel end
No swollen womb, nor fulsome glow
No life beckons from within

No innocent laughter will touch my ears
No kisses will I taste
No fluttering heartbeat or morning’s unease
Child-bearing hips gone to waste

My arms are cold and empty
My ears will hear no cries
No baby smiles or pleasant coos
For a dream of motherhood dies

No fingers reaching for earrings
No gentle fist like clasps
No suction on nipples from hungry lips
No tumbling body grasps

No pre-school nerves or adolescent angst
Nor prom or graduation’s pride
No Mother’s Day Cards or Chocolate hearts
All dreams and desires denied

Mother, Mommy, Mama, Ma
Are words I’ll never hear,
No tear-stains to witness ‘I do’ from a son
Or a daughter that’s always near

My arms are cold and empty
My ears will hear no cries
No baby smiles or pleasant coos
For a dream of motherhood dies.

But my soul will carry on
With help from the Lord Above
Who blessed me with the courage of a mighty queen
And the strength of a mother’s love.

AUNQUE SEA SOLO POR UNA NOCHE
(If Only For One Night - From 'CARAMEL FLAVA')
Written January 29th, 2006

Me duele el corazon por ti
Mi cuerpo te desea ardientemente
Mi alma te anhela tanto, mi amor,
Aunque se solo por una noche.

Aunque sea solo por una noche tocame
Aunque se sola por una noche, saboreame
Aunque sea solo por una noche, deja que nuestros cuerpos hagan musica

Te deseo, mi amor

Aunque sea solo por una noche.



If only for a night - Translated

My heart aches for you
My body longs for you
My soul wants you, so bad my love
If only for a night

If only for a night, touch me
If only for a night, taste me
If only for a night, let our bodies make music together.

I want you my love

If only for a night.

ONE YEAR LATER - Inspired by “Luther Vandross Live - Radio City Music Hall 2003.” – October 16, 2006

One year later, the memory of his voice still sends chills through my frame. Never deviating from the lyrics, nor the trademark ad-libs, in his death, Luther Vandross remains the singular voice of love we have, Forever and For Always. One year later, I’m still shaking my head in disbelief. I just know that in a few weeks, our lives will be enriched once more with something new, something special. Then, the tour will come, and the tickets will go...QUICKLY. The roses I’ll share with someone special, as well as well dressed dinner at a favorite restaurant will serve as a backdrop to what we’ll both cherish. Who cares about the opening act? Not us. The Sultan of Seductive Song doesn’t mind our late arrival, unless of course, if we miss his first note.

Let me hear your voice, if only for another night. Many of say this, a year after the music stopped. Sure, he has left a legacy of love with that ageless sound. But what we wouldn’t give to hear the directive “19 more...” during Creepin’, or the melodious mixture of rhythm and words during Never Too Much. We know about the killer songs -ALL ACTUALLY- so there’s no need to recite, now is there? The ladies in the crowd, were they dressed for us under those red concert lights, or were they decked to the nines for him? I know after dark, in the privacy of our homes, they revealed all to us in a sensuous, seductive manner because of him. To that, many brothers give the heavens hugs and hand-pounds.

As I sit here and listen to this live CD, recorded 2 months before the beginning of the end (his stroke) I wonder if he knew this was it. Perhaps he and God decided they blessed us enough. Perhaps God wanted him home to serenade HIS and The Lord's heart as they decide what to do with the many of us that don’t know the true meaning of his most precious energy, that being LOVE.

Here’s what I’m thinking: He and his maker had a pact; to loan us that incredible vocal instrument, his affectionately adored, tantalizingly tender tone. We were to have this voice all to ourselves for a half century, just to see how much we treasure love and romance. Then, once Luther made us believers in this spirit and its conditions, he would leave us. Maybe that’s it.

Maybe his legacy was defined by our future. Maybe we’re supposed to gain bravery in giving our hearts time and time again, renew, recharge and replenish our batteries, escape our emotional insecurities by listening to a Luther Vandross song. Maybe through song, he’ll smile from heaven whenever a couple clasp hands while gazing in each others eyes with a look they only recognize. Maybe he’ll give Phyllis Hyman and Barry White high fives when two people solidify their bond by saying ‘I do’ as Here and Now plays in the background. Maybe the love Luther possessed for us still lives within us, with every good deed we do, every time ladies nurture their men, every time kings stand strong for their queens. As he sang so beautifully, we should do the same, by telling those in our lives we cherish, your love is all we need.

When Marilyn Monroe passed away, Joe DiMaggio ordered fresh flowers on her grave every week until he passed some forty years later. Through his magnificent melody, Luther still brings us roses from his heart, but gives them to us while the breath of life remains in us. Why don’t we, one year later, show our thanks to him by showing love; to our love ones and family or strangers in need of a pick me up. I think God’s noble courier of love would appreciate that.

I miss you, man.

William Fredrick Cooper

GOODBYE LUTHER...

GOODBYE LUTHER - Written July 9th, 2005
His casket is made of gold. I can imagine the warmth he’ll feel as he travels home. In some uncanny way, we all feel the same time of love today, listening to that one-of-a-kind voice. It’ll keep you near, to ease away the tears that his physical departure from us leaves.

But the memory of him remains in his music. The voice will live forever. Trying to convince myself of such last night, I ventured to the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home to say goodbye to a man I never met, but who touched my life in so many ways. Awaiting the northbound Madison Avenue bus, before I could put a Luther CD in my player, the damn of tear ducts spilled over.
A woman, sixty-something and graying, handed me a napkin. Peering into my grieving eyes, she was comforting.

“I know, baby. He touched us all.”

“I didn’t know it would affect me so deeply,” came my sniffle-filled response.

“Sometimes, love does that, sugar.” That woman was a nurturing angel sent from above at the right time. I knew that Luther sent her to me.

The journey to 81st Street was a trip down memory lane; Vandross Street, acttually. Remembering how I stole my mother’s cassette of his first album so that I could play A House Is Not A Home all the way to High School, I also recalled the many lonely Valentines Day’s where I longed to hold a special someone. Luther Made Me a Believer in that true love exists. Just ‘keep holding on,’ he said in Any Love. My wedding day? Here and Now played through the systems as bridesmaids and groomsmen walked to me. In retrospect, I wish I would have kept the promise Luther encouraged me to do in song. I should have loved her faithfully. My only hope is when Luther arrives at the pearly gates, his initial request to God is to send me another queen whose first words will be I came here For You To Love.

By The Time I reached the line of thousands who also experienced a similar loss, I’d Rather was in my ears. That song reminded me of a time where, in an attempt to salvage a foundering relationship, I walked into Houlihan’s with two dozen red roses, a diamond ring, and that song on the jukebox expressing every word I felt at the moment. Although another heartbreak followed, it was Luther who told me I was a lucky guy and instructed me not to fall Too Far Down.

Perhaps I should have conveyed that message to the many that in the grieving area. Though we were instructed to move through, many collected themselves in the pews. Sensing, feeling and comprehending their tremendous loss, the tears flowed anew as I viewed the rose adorned gold casket. Though closed, I saw him, and remembered him singing to me many times over. To the left was a video montage, the right were more flowers, and the many iridescent jackets that illuminated my soul along with that incomparable voice. Smiling as I recalled him actually moon-walking like MJ during one of his concerts, he Gave Me A Reason to dance with his mid-tempo cuts.

That it rains here in New York City today, the day of his homecoming, is one last symbol of his love. Waterfalls from heaven to welcome him home, he wants us to cry If Only For One Night, heal our hearts from all negativity, then resume our quest for the very thing he wants us all to share: Any Love. The skies, while overcast today, will be a generous blue tomorrow. The grieving will cease once God welcomes his prince home, but the gift of song he left behind will bring warmth, compassion and love for all eternity.

Goodbye, Luther.
William Fredrick Cooper

MY HOUSE IS STILL A HOME...(A Tribute to Luther Vandross...)
Written July 4th, 2005

It’s been three days, and it still hasn’t sunk in. God, I miss him. But he’s home now, dancing with his father. Smiling from heaven, he’s no longer suffering the effects of his stroke, in fact he’s in full body and spirit singing in front of Barry White’s Love Unlimited Orchestra. I can’t wait to hear that duet with Phyllis Hyman. (It’s ironic how we lost them all on or around July 4th Weekend.)

Do you remember where you were when you received the news that a friend to some and lover to all was gone? I was in a car that Friday afternoon at 5:30 p.m. when the bulletin stunned the airwaves Letting out a scream, I was hoping, praying that the Bad Boy of radio would allow listeners to see how much our friend impacted his life.

“I don’t want to talk about death on a Friday,” was the disc jockey’s terse response.

Angered to the point I couldn’t see straight, a deep feeling within my core told me we would have been fighting had I been in the studio.

He just didn’t get it.

“You’d be celebrating love and life,” I countered.

Immediately, I turned the dial to a more compassionate deejay.

As the numbness thawed and the tears came, I thought of his legacy as his talent was the cornerstone, the foundation to everything positive with regards to God most precious energy, love.

And oh, that voice. Smooth as velvet, as powerful as a hurricane of love, he was quality personified. No one will ever replicate, or even come close to his vocal artistry. Now I know how people felt when moved to tears by a Nat King Cole, Sam Cooke song. Luther Vandross was for our generation what they were for my parents.

As I sit and listen to the Dance With My Father compilation, I Think About Him. Feeling blessed to have seen him in concert seven times, the last time he touched me live was at Long Island’s Westbury Music Fair in May of 2002, a year before the music stopped. Even better on stage, Luther never cheated us. Ladies, how many of you stood up and either, 1) sang his lyrics in tears, or 2) received spiritual chills, as if feeling the Holy Ghost? Us men? While sometimes jealous that Luther enveloped your woman in passion while serenading her, how many of you were fortunate enough after words to be thanked in the most amorous way imaginable after his shows? If Only For One Night of the year, you thanked him profusely, because she gave you some of the best lovemaking you ever had after his shows.

After making love to us by way of song for two hours, we were selfish, for we always wanted more. Obliging, if Luther could have sang for ten hours, he would have. And ten hours later, the arena still would have been standing room only. Can I get an Amen?

Ladies, Luther Vandross was my man. Now before you get it all twisted, let me explain: When I couldn’t summon the guts to tell you those three words, I spent many a lonely night under red lights in my Brooklyn bedroom making Valentine’s Day Packages for special friends I hoped would get the message. Two Pound chocolate hearts, big cards, a little stuffed animal or trinket, and…ahem… 'pause button slow jam tapes.' Every single one I ever made culminated with a powerful Luther song. He always knew the right words to say, the words I felt shy in expressing to you.

He sure had a way of making love feel so good, didn’t he? A House Was Not A Home without him. Love Wouldn’t Let Him Wait; he coveted the Here and Now. After telling us to Buy Her A Rose, he and Gregory Hines Gave Me A Reason why: There’s Nothing Better Than Love. From I Who Had Nothing, he gave me something to work with, If Only For One Night. When caught Creepin’, we had to forgive him, for He Really Didn’t Mean It. Searching for the truth, he had the Glow Of Love on a joyful countenance when singing the damn songs. Anyone Who Has a Heart would, if they believed in love.

Wanting The Night To Stay, I got The Rush when he encouraged me to Never Let Go of my quest for Any Love. Cast under a spell, the strong, seductive, sensational sound of his tone was Never Too Much to listen to. And to think: this was a man who lost Talent Night at the Apollo four times (!) and was known for doing KFC and Pizza jingles.

Stop and think about that for a tick.

KFC jingles.

Pizza jingles.

It boggles the mind, doesn’t it?

KFC jingles. I’m still shaking my head incredulously.

My tears have dried again, for I am grateful that he left behind so much of him. All weekend long, his songs told the story of my life, my search for the right one. Crying, dancing, singing, burning CD’s for my mother, thinking of his live performances I captured - Often going alone, sometimes not - I realized my house is still a home, because his love for song and love itself will live inside me for the rest of my days.

I love you, Luther. Thanks for being you.

Sincerely,
William Fredrick Cooper

ANOTHER LONELY NIGHT... By Ronn Midnight

Another Lonely Night
by Ronn Midnight - Written January 20th, 2005

A lonely Monday night can be a painful thing. Football on ESPN awaits my arrival home, but after that, what will fill the emptiness of a heart desperate for passion?
A fantasy of you will do. As my key turns the knob to a seductive sanctuary, your confirmation arouses me.

"Honey, I’m in the shower."

The sight of warm water cascading down your silky frame has my loins pulsating with unbearable desire. Anticipation racing through my heart as you lather your body, the stare we share makes the heat as the base of my belly hungry for immediate care.

I want you. I need you.

Badly.

Seeing my look of greed, yearning to appease my need, you tease me by doing a seductively slow, soapy, hypnotic hip grind. Taking a sharp breath, we both notice that the throbbing between my legs has become intense.

"Come join me, baby."

You don’t have to ask twice.

Emitting a soft groan as you wrap your legs around me, I realize the power your stems have me weak to sexual laws I have yet to comprehend. Tongues and teeth in unison, we dance the forbidden dance reserved for those in lust. In a while, I realize that firm, swollen breasts aren’t enough this evening, nor are passionate pecks on pliant petals. My erection rubbing against you, the thought of seeing you clash with orgasmic insanity as I stroke you has me twitching in eagerness.

Now in the bedroom, I lay you on the bed and leave the room. You are bewildered. Seeing me return with chocolate syrup and a banana sends anticipation through you.

"Give Mommy the fruit, and watch her do her thing, baby…"

Obliging to your request, I watch the seductive peeling, then oral stimulation of this defenseless tool.

"Mmmm, Daddy, I need something bigger… Put some syrup on it." All the while, I’m thinking, "The syrup’s for you."

"Do you mind if I stroke you up?" Seeing you lip-sync the music of Changing Faces as you drink, then pour sweet, brown liquid over my swollen urgency sends me crashing through all stop signs as you journey to its purple brim. Easing it in an oral ecstasy, you moved from stem to bulb to stem again, lasciviously licking, then sensuously sucking, slurping and swallowing Daddy’s chocolate ship. The mixture of chocolate and pre-cum arouses you as your devotion works an erect treasure reserved especially for your love.

My heart beating rapidly as you push my hard flesh deeper into your moisture, the pleasurable sensation is too much to endure as I go to the back of your throat. Feeling the achy sensation that arrives just before liftoff, it takes over my soul, mind and spirit, fucking me all up. Climatic convulsions come thereafter as a milky mixture of white dew and Hershey’s erupts… THERE!!!

"Mmmm, baby, I love your chocolate milk," you giggle after quenching your thirst.

Cueing on your affectionate eroticism, I return you to your back and empty the contents of our creativity onto your glorious nudity. Commencing at your eyes, I start with tantalizing, tasteful lip taps. Soon, those pecks unleash a tongue, licking and lapping its way through the chocolate, to berry-sweet nipples.

"Mmmm, my own covered strawberries," I groan, reaching your fountain-filled navel. Barely enough fluid there to satisfy, I know a place that’ll comply.

Prying open your soaked, syrupy womanhood with an avid, active creature, I plunge into you with the unchained animalism of a wild beast starving for nourishment. The undeniable, indescribable swelling of your passion I feel rising as I go deeper…with my tongue…then my mouth and lips…and finally, my nose. Like a rain-soaked flower of eternal love, you drip on my bald pate as I smear it against the depth of you, wanting, yearning, ready for you to explode. Pulling my mouth tight against your frame as you submit to sexual satisfaction, between your magnificent melody moans you peak once…twice…thrice.

Mmm, Daddy liked that.

What, you thought we were done?

Stamina, my love. Stamina.

Like bees covered in honey, from temple to toes we wear our sticky sundae. But hunger cravings only soul mates share leaves us both wanting more. As I move atop you, you guide the length of me to its warm destination. Entering you with a single thrust, a gentle squeal escapes you as my love for you hits the right spot over and over again. "Shivering is good, my love," I whisper softly as I hear you whimper, then feel you wither against my masculinity. Hearing you say, "I love you," at your climax brought on another generous milk offering on my behalf, without delay. Collapsing into a cuddle, we share a parting kiss as I reluctantly leave the fantasy of another lonely night.

Why, Mama Why? (Based on Actual Events)
Written July 31st, 2004

Drenching wet as he walked up 225th Street, the steep climb up Marble Hill, nor the hail sized raindrops emanating from ubiquitous clouds of despair could awaken William from his dejection; in fact, the recent developments of his life far surpassed any thunderstorm.

Desperately trying to understand it all, the merriment and good times in June were replaced by turmoil and confusion in July, not to mention emotional disappointment and occupational devastation. A loss of a job can do that to any Black Man; even the questioning of character by someone dear is easy to comprehend. But at the same time, in the same month?

The Two W's - white people and women of color - constructed a beehive of cynicism and negativity around his fragile state; yet somehow he managed to maintain positive, no matter how many times he was stung during the first twenty-nine days.

In spite of all that happened this month, he remained upbeat; but not without the aid of his special circle of friends. It seemed that whenever his warrior-like resiliency temporarily wavered; a phone call, as if illuminated by light and pushed in his face, would widen dilated pupils with a positive word.

There was something about that 30th day, however, that poisoned his spirit. Stumbling through the windblown raindrops in a stupor, an opaqueness captured his eyes and he kept shaking his head.

"One More Strike," he repeated over and over. "One More Strike."

Still trying to comprehend the card reader's blow delivered just minutes ago, that the heavens opened up and delivered hail-sized tears immediately after her utterance only added to their unknown turpitude.

Up until those chilling words, he refused to harp on his present state. After losing his job on the 16th, he smiled, finished up his time billing for the week, and left without commotion. When his friendship with Andrea became strained, he said a silent prayer, hoped that the love between them would smooth things over, and kept moving.

But the words of the physic staggered him. Granted, if most people were told by a seer that they were down to their final chance at love, the callous expression of thought might seem risible. However, William wasn't most guys.

Wearing his heart on his sleeve ever since sending Monica Caldwell that love letter in the tenth grade, for twenty-two years he experienced the gamut of emotions that come with that crazy energy know as love. After the pains of heartbreak he built his faith and trust in women, only to see his dreams of compatibility and completeness dashed time and time again. Each hurt took something from a titanic ticker that used to give unconditionally; each time the recovery time from his wrong choice seemed longer; as much as William fought change, the coldness he thought he’d never feel began to stiffen his heart. Sadly, he started to evolve.

A playa is a playa because he's scared to feel, and William's actions between heartbreaks manifested such a belief system: A failed marriage, embarrassing two-timing incidents, and poor choices in women. The common denominator in all instances, he couldn't place blame his present emotional dysfunction on anyone except the man in the mirror.

The fortuneteller accentuated this in her forecast. Ginger-skinned and beautiful, her warning was candid and honest.

"You have one more chance at love, William" she said as she turned over her final card. It revealed a bleeding red heart, punctured by three knives piercing its core. "If you let it pass you by, or fail it when its given to you, you will get hurt three times, then be alone for the rest of your life."

Biting down on his lip, the pent up emotions gave way to crystal tear shed as he ambled up the hill. As if to add to the agony, the waterfall from the skies matched the rainfall from sullen, somber eyes. Barely smelling the cigar smoke coming from the first floor window, he placed the key into the outer door, and turned.

Running up four flights of marble stairs maintained his youthful shape; No ‘done-lap disease’ on this 38 year old; his body was still sleek as a jaguar. But his heart? Well, that was another story.

Remembering how he preached doing right by his women; had he really been doing that of late? One night stands indicated lack of trust, and sex, while enjoyable, was detached. Instead of giving emotions, he was giving physical gratification to others.

"That often happens when you've been hurt often," he mused. "Something in you snaps. There's only so much healing you can do, so much hiding pain behind excuses. "Women say they don't need men, devote their lives to their kids, yet a certain degree of bitterness toward men and the heartbreak they've caused lingers. Hell, look at the frustration Halle Berry feels with love right now. Anybody that says otherwise is only fooling themselves."

"At least our women keep trying. Most men don't even attempt to try as much as I have. Either they conceal their fear of emotional pain behind empty sex or dysfunctional unions, or they simply give up."

The question that William had to ask himself still tortured him. Were his self-destructive actions indicative of a resigned state? Had he finally given up on Love? His actions, once chivalrous and selfless, had become self-centered and self-absorbed. While there were women around who wanted him to take that last chance, he just couldn’t open up completely. Recalling days when ten dollar, two dozen rose bunches were grabbed on impulse from corner stores and given to that someone special instinctively, the care-free innocence of those moments were long gone. Those same arrangements would just sit at the store, begging for the comfort and security in the arms of someone special, and William would walk on by.

Was he that scared to open his heart?

The tears turned to unrestrained sobs as he listened to Patti LaBelle scream "If Only You Knew." Not wanting to be lonely, but terrified to feel the pain of love gone awry one more time, he thought of everything his mother taught him about women. She had done a great job at teaching him what they liked, yet the process was brilliantly incomplete; he hadn't found forever with a queen.

And judging from what the psychic had told him, he had run out of opportunities to err.

Twenty-two years. That was exactly the time frame it took George Foreman to exorcise his demons. In 1974, Ali had rope-a-doped him in Zaire, and for years he thought of excuse after excuse to assuage his pain. The cloud was lifted in 1996, when a single punch landed square on the chin of Michael Moorer, inducing a ten-count and a heartfelt prayer in the corner; giving thanks to Him for lifting the monkey off his back. Finally, he had attained redemption.

Twenty-two Years of rejection, ridicule and resignation hung around the neck of William as if it was an albatross. Remembering every moment he had been injured, every injury he inflicted because of it, the empty nights of passion shared and its ensuing loneliness, he wanted what it seemed everyone around him had: A REAL LOVE.

"Mama, why didn't you tell me it would be this hard?, " he shouted as Boyz II Men told him not to let love pass him by, "Why didn't you warn me that if I keep making bad choices in women, the well of love in my heart eventually run dry? Why don't the women in my life, whether friends or mate, appreciate me for the man I am. Why don't they see that we to have hearts that are just as confused with their actions as they are with ours? Why Mama, Why?"

REAL LOVE... (Taken From The Novel 'Six Days In January')

REAL LOVE… (Excerpt taken from the novel ‘Six Days In January)
Written October, 2003

Are you there, God? It's me, William again. I humbly come to you, my creator, with so much to be grateful for. Thank you so much for giving me the strength to rise this morning, and for blessing me with such a beautiful daughter. Thank you for allowing the air to pass through my lungs another day. With each passing day, I continue to praise you, hoping you keep the wondrous light shining down upon me. You have given me a talent I cherish daily, and the fact that my words touch others means so much. At times, the endless cupboard of energy and strength you blessed me with drives people crazy, but my intentions are good, Lord. The sole purpose of the breath you give me is to make a difference.

Recently, I was told that sometimes we have to specifically ask for what we need. So today, I come before your incredible spirit asking for the one thing that has evaded me: A REAL LOVE.

It was so hard rising from bed this morning, as I needed every bit of the strength you provide to will me to this computer. The other day, I said goodbye to love again. Tears met at my chin as another love boarded the train of heartbreak. Her destination: out of my life for good. Lord, I didn't want her to go, but she said we're not in the same place and time of our lives, that our destiny is to be friends. How can you accept that after giving your heart in a sacred way?

You indicated in Proverbs that man cannot direct his own steps, and you were right, Lord; oh you were so right. That is why I now leave the most treasured piece of my existence in your hands; my heart. I apologize for its battered and bruised state, missing pieces and frayed at the edges, please forgive its present condition. Twenty-plus years of excess baggage can do that. The favor I ask from you is to mend it this one last time, for I am a man that truly wants to love unconditionally, wholeheartedly, and completely.Sometimes, I feel like I have nothing left, Lord. Each heartbreaking experience takes something from me. I realize that you created me very different from most men in that I am in touch with my emotions, but it doesn’t make me weak. Because of you, I am both lamb and lion simultaneously. Through your love, you have given me insight on love that many fail to possess, and for that alone, I feel whole. Sadly, when it comes to your beautiful energy and its correlation with my life, it seems to be allergic to my heart.

Lord, you have instructed us to always love as if the first time, however after each bout with the residue a failed love leaves behind when awry has done something to me; it takes longer and longer to open my soul to the goodness I know you have in store for me. Fear can paralyze the warmest of them, and I am frightened of the pain that accompanies hurt, and frustration. But, agony is what I feel right now.

Alone. Again.

The feeling of love was once so strong in me, but I'm losing hope, Lord; I'm losing hope. That is why I need you to guide me, with your wondrous strength, to help me find that real love, that true love, that lasting love. The shared energy that starts with nothing and ends up with something, the mutual adjoining of spirits where worlds are complete as hearts, minds, bodies, souls and spirits fuse to one. The positive radiance that illuminates the darkest of skies, that makes the meek move mountains. The passion that never stays away when things go awry, the communal that prays together to stay together, the heavenly union that goes through the rain to appreciate your glorious sun.I want it so bad, Lord, I've tasted its beauty at times. I've held it, fought the good fight for it, longed for it during lonely nights, cherished it and appreciated when given rations of it, worked alone to salvage what appeared on the surface to be it, pushed it way in fear and because of the pain it often caused, abused it at times; please forgive my imperfections. I keep trying, Lord and I'm running into walls everywhere.

Tears are flowing from my eyes right now as the meditation of my words transfer to screen, and paper. Heavenly Father, I call upon you to reconstruct my soul yet again. I place all my faith in you, Lord, that you may build my tattered heart into an indestructible edifice once more. Please replenish my faith in love once more, one last time, Lord, so that when it comes I'll embrace it with everything I have, endlessly, fearlessly and totally. You are love, so I know that it can't be wrong when I tell people that your most precious gift to mankind, Love, conquers all.

Please help me find it.

In Jesus' name, Amen.

William Fredrick Cooper

-Copyright 2003